The art of catching the snitch

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

interpol - slow hands 

And I might stop and look upon your faceDisappear in the sweet, sweet gazeSee the living that surrounds meDissipate in a violet blaze

Can't you see what you've done to my heartAnd soul?

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

"Seriously, Wood?" Lee exclaims, arms crossed, looking him up and down.

Oliver lets out a loud sigh and sits on Fred's bed. He agreed to come to this Welcoming Party for the Delegations because Fred and George practically begged them too at the last Quidditch practice. Angelina too, which he found weird. But mostly, he agreed because they all promised to come a bit earlier to practice for the rest of the year.

"What's the problem now?"

"It's a Halloween party, Wood. Meaning costumes. Familiar with the concept?" Fred adds as he puts more white onto his face to perfect his vampire costume.

"Well? I'm dressed up," Oliver replies with a shrug.

The twins and Lee all turn to him, eyebrows raised.

"You're wearing Quidditch uniform, Wood," George states.

"So?"

"You already are a Quidditch player, mate. That doesn't count."

"I'm wearing the Puddlemere Seeker's jersey. That's not me, last I checked."

Lee shakes his head. 

Oliver sighs and flops onto the bed in surrender. Fred shakes his head and steps closer. "Come here."

He sits up, letting Fred do whatever to his face, expression tense. "C'mon, I don't even want to go. I've got training early tomorrow and—"

"Shut up, Wood," Fred tells him. He finishes whatever he's doing, grabs Oliver by the shoulders, and pulls him to his feet, dragging him to the mirror. "There. A Quidditch player, sure, but a scary one."

Oliver looks at his reflection. Fred has drawn a fake wound on his brow and smeared a bit of red onto his jersey.

"Are you telling me you just ruined my Puddlemere jersey?"

Fred stays silent for a few seconds before flashing him a wide, toothy grin and slapping his back. "Alright, lads, down to business now."

Lee searches through his trunk and pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey, shaking it proudly.

The second Oliver sees it, he walks over and takes it right out of his hands, downing three gulps. He shakes his head, grimaces, and hands the bottle to George.

"God, Wood, what's with you?" George asks, amused, before taking a swig and passing it to Fred.

"I'm gonna need this," Fred mutters before drinking.

"Why?" Lee asks, grabbing the bottle.

"I'm planning to ask Angelina to the Yule Ball."

Oliver instinctively turns his head toward George. He catches the brief frown of his brow, the nearly invisible flicker of hurt before his lips turn into a grin for his brother.

Oliver doesn't know much about relationships—especially romantic ones—but he does know how to listen, and he knows just how much George has liked Angelina since first year. He's probably the only one George has ever told.

Lee lets out a low whistle. "Oooooh, aren't you afraid she'll shut you down completely?"

"No girl turns me down, Jordan. It's basic law of nature," Fred answers. 

Oliver feels a little bit sad for George. It's true Fred is the one to always get the girl where George is more romantic, takes his time. 

George laughs but it doesn't sound too sincere before turning to Oliver. "And you, Ollie?" he asks. "Have you thought about who you're going to ask?"

"Ask to what?"

"The ball."

"What ball?"

"The Yule Ball," George says. 

"There's a ball happening?"

"Yes, we even have dance lessons."

"What? Why would we have dance lessons?"

"For the ball."

"When is it?"

"At Christmas."

"The ball is on Christmas Day?"

Fred tosses him the bottle and Oliver catches it just in time. "Drink up, you dysfunctional idiot."

Oliver obeys. He hadn't even processed that Fred was talking about a formal ball organized by the school. His mind is already drifting to the fact that he won't be going home for Christmas this year, and then, inevitably, to his father's disapproval. Pictures of his mother and little sister flash. He closes his eyes and takes another swig.

"So, who are you asking?" Lee asks again.

"Do we have to ask someone?"

"It's better, yeah. Unless you wanna dance with McGonagall in front of the whole school."

He shrugs. "Dunno. No one."

Fred watches him, a smile onto his face. "Why don't you ask Krum?"

"Viktor Krum?" Oliver asks, frowning.

"God, he's exhausting!" Fred groans, running a hand down his face. "Not Viktor—Zora! Zora Krum."

Zora.

Oliver swallows.

"Don't think we forgot about your little interaction at the World Cup and the tension since she set foot in Hogwarts," George adds, raising his brows.

Oliver scoffs. He takes another swig and stands up. "Let's just get this party over with."

Fred, George and Lee chuckle, exchanging knowing looks as they follow him out the door.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The party is too loud. Way too loud. Too many colors, too many different costumes, too many sparkles.

The Hufflepuff common room is packed. People shove past him, girls grab onto his arm, telling him about how excited they are to see him play this season, making him spill half his beer. The music is deafening—he can't even hear himself think.

Across the room, he meets Fred's gaze. Arms crossed, head shaking.

"What?" Oliver asks. 

"I'll never get it, Wood. You've got every Quidditch fangirl at your feet, and it's like you don't even notice."

Oliver shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.

"I'd kill to have that many girls coming up to me," Lee adds.

George throws an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, Jordan. You're the biggest flirt in Gryffindor Tower—don't be ridiculous."

"Speaking of women, mine just arrived," Fred announces, downing his drink in one go, eyes locked on the other side of the room. He walks away and Lee follows him.

Oliver places a hand on George's arm. "Hey, you alright?"

George exhales, his eyes lingering in the same direction as Fred's. He offers Oliver a small, resigned smile. "Yeah, mate. Thanks. I've only got myself to blame anyway. Never had the guts to actually ask her."

"You should talk to Fred about it," Oliver suggests.

George shrugs. "It's too late."

"It's never too late, Georgie."

"God, just look at her—"

Oliver turns, expecting to see Angelina. But he isn't looking at her. He's looking at the girl right beside her. Zora.

The one with the golden dress that barely reaches mid-thigh. The one with long brown hair falling down her back. The one with fake white wings stretching behind her.

Her smile. That smile. It's unguarded, wide, carefree. When she laughs, her eyes crinkle shut, and it's as if the world pauses around her for just a moment. The sound of her laughter rings in his ears, even though he can't hear it above the music. He knows it by heart. Knows it better than the songs playing, better than the chatter filling the room.

The room seems to blur around her as if she's the only clear thing in a storm of colors and sounds.

"She's so beautiful, it's—"

George's voice fades away. Oliver nods absently, lifting his glass to his lips.

Beauty has always been an abstract concept for Oliver. He finds it in experiences, not in appearances. In the rush of adrenaline when he takes off on his broom, in the softness of the summer nights, in the peace of cycling through the Scottish countryside with his little sister.

He's never been one to see beauty—he feels it. It moves through him more than it catches his eye.

But now, as his eyes trace the lines of her dress, the way it clings to her hips, the way the light makes her long hair shine, it all comes together in a way he hasn't experienced before.  It's as if beauty has finally taken shape, standing right in front of him. 

It's not just the way she looks—it's the way she makes him feel. All at once. Adrenaline, softness, peace—everything at once, in a single moment. A transcendence that shakes the foundation of the way he's looked at the world until now.

"Shit, they're coming," George mutters, straightening up.

Oliver panics, downs his drink in one go, scrambling for an escape route. "I—uh, I need to—uh—"

Too late.

"Look who I found," Fred grins, an arm around Angelina, the other around Zora.

Oliver refuses to meet her eyes. He feels them on him—heavy, suffocating—so he focuses on Angelina instead, on her ghost costume.

"Wood, George," she greets.

Oliver just nods.

"Well, well, well. You two have been keeping secrets from us, Krum and Wood?" Lee crosses his arms, smirking.

Oliver frowns at the sudden shift of attention.

"Oh my God, yes! Was this planned? You didn't tell me !" Angelina teases as she turns to Zora.

His frown deepens. Then, reluctantly, he looks at Zora.

Golden dress. White wings.

Oh. Of course.

The Golden Snitch.

Zora just watches him, a smile playing on her lips. Oliver feels George clap a hand on his shoulder.

"Looks like you'll be chasing the Snitch all night, Seeker."

Laughter erupts around them. Zora raises a brow at him.

Oliver shakes his head, turning toward the bar, letting the sound of their laughter fade behind him. He needs another drink.

But despite himself, the corners of his lips twitch upward—just slightly, barely there.

For the first time, he almost regrets buying that Puddlemere United Seeker jersey.

Almost.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver isn't exactly sure when he stopped listening to Lee. He was in the middle of an elaborate retelling of how he, Fred, and George had managed to set off a dungbomb in the Slytherin common room—courtesy of a few unsuspecting Hufflepuff girls.

But Oliver is far more interested in something happening across the room.

Zora.

She's standing close—too close—to Adrian Pucey, talking, laughing. Her head tilts back, her smile stretching so wide it almost reaches her ears. And Pucey, the absolute twat, is grinning like he just won the bloody Quidditch Cup.

Oliver narrows his eyes.

It's like she's doing this on purpose. Talking, standing too close to his rivals. First Diggory. Now Pucey. Like she's trying to get her way into every little corner of his life, just to piss him off.

God knows what they're talking about. Maybe they're plotting something against him, against the other teams. Adrian would be capable of it. But no—Oliver knows Zora better than that, no matter what she thinks. She wouldn't pull something like that. She loves the game too much.

Maybe they're flirting. Maybe he's telling her some compliments and she likes it. 

Or maybe, Oliver is just telling himself some little stories to avoid facing the truth. His truth. 

Then, suddenly, he sees Pucey lean in even closer, his hand brushing the fabric of her golden dress at her waist as he asks something—probably about her costume.

Oliver swallows, hard.

Someone steps in front of them, cutting off his view. He shifts, angling his head, his body—anything to get a better look.

He doesn't notice Fred approach, looking far too amused.

"You alright, Captain?"

Oliver doesn't even glance at him, too busy trying to regain his line of sight. "Mhm."

Fred snorts, claps a hand on his shoulder, and shifts him to the right.

"There. Better view, right ?"

Oliver finally glares at him. 

Fred crosses his arms, utterly amused. "So? You good? You look... how should I put this... concerned?"

Oliver exhales sharply. "I'm fine."

Fred shrugs. "Right. That's why you look like you're about to shatter your glass."

Oliver glances down. Knuckles white around the cup; 

Fred sighs. "Listen, mate, if you wanna go over there so badly and talk to her, just—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. Oliver is already moving.

He downs his drink in one go, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and heads straight in their direction.

Fred watches, delighted. "Oh, this is gonna be fantastic. You lot, come and see."

It's only when Oliver is nearly in front of them that he realizes his mistake.

Because—what the hell is he supposed to do now?

He has no plan. No excuse. Nothing to justify barging in like a madman and interrupting their conversation.

For lack of a better option, he clears his throat. Zora and Adrian turn to him, both looking confused.

Then Adrian smirks, eyeing him up and down. "Wood. What, just back from training?"

Oliver opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

He doesn't dare look at Zora, who, no doubt, is enjoying every second of his humiliation. But out of the corner of his eye, he catches her biting her lip, fighting back a smile.

"Cat got your tongue?" Adrian adds like he's talking to a child. 

Oliver clicks his tongue and finally turns to him. "Fuck off, Pucey."

Silence. Then, Zora speaks. "Did you want something?"

Just hearing her voice—low, slightly raspy, with that unmistakable accent—makes his whole body tense up.

And then—panic.

Because he still has nothing. No reason. No excuse.

No valid fucking explanation for storming over like a complete lunatic.

So he panics. Spectacularly.

"Just wanted to check if you were—uh—having a good time."

Pucey actually chokes on a laugh. "You? Checking in on me?"

"Not you." Oliver says. Too quickly.

Zora narrows her eyes at him and for a second, Oliver swears saw a slight smile on her lips. She doesn't have time to answer as Pucey starts talking again. "That's sweet, Wood. Didn't know you cared."

Oliver grits his teeth. He wants to wipe the smirk off Pucey's face. Or wipe the whole bloody face off.

He sighs and turns to her. "Can I talk to you?"

Zora blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Alone. Right now."

Pucey raises an eyebrow, glancing between them like he's watching a performance.

Zora, clearly entertained, crosses her arms. "What if I don't want to?"

Oliver sighs. "It wasn't a request."

She arches a brow. "Bossy, aren't we?"

Oliver gives her a look. "Krum."

A beat.

Then, to his absolute relief—Zora rolls her eyes, but moves.

She steps away from Pucey. "Be right back."

Pucey smiles. "Take your time."

Oliver glares at him before grabbing Zora's wrist and pulling her away.

Somewhere behind them, Fred lets out a loud whistle. Oliver makes a mental note to make him do more laps at the next training. 

Oliver still doesn't have a plan. Which, really, is becoming a bloody problem.

He only realizes it when they stop—far enough from the crowd that no one's listening, but close enough that the music still hums in the background. Zora puts her wrist free from his grip.

"So?" she asks. "What was so urgent?"

Oliver stares at her. His mouth opens—then closes. 

Right. The urgent thing.

Zora tilts her head, waiting. Too patient. Too amused.

He exhales sharply. "You shouldn't be talking to him."

Zora blinks. Then, as if she misheard—"Sorry?"

Oliver stiffens. But now that the words are out there, he has no choice but to keep going. "Pucey," he says, voice tight. "You shouldn't be talking to him."

Zora laughs. It's not a full, open laugh—it's sharp, disbelieving. "Are you serious?"

Oliver crosses his arms. "Completely."

Zora shakes her head, letting out a short breath. "Unbelievable."

"What?"

She gives him a look. "You're telling me who I can and can't talk to now?"

Oliver falters. Of course he isn't, of course he doesn't. "No. I just—" He exhales sharply. "Pucey's a prat, alright?"

"So?" Zora throws up her hands. "You're a prat. I still talk to you."

Oliver glares. "It's different."

"How?"

"Because he's an even bigger prat."

Zora stares at him. "That's your argument?"

"It's a good argument!"

Zora shakes her head. "Merlin, you're ridiculous."

"I'm serious."

Zora throws her arms out. "Then say it!"

Oliver tenses. "Say what?"

She steps closer and he can smell her perfume and the light, familiar amber touch. "Whatever it is that's making you act like this."

Oliver stares at her. 

Say it.

But he can't. Because he doesn't even know what it is. 

So he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"He's probably just trying to distract you and beat you at Quidditch. Or get you into his bed. Pucey's like that. That's all." He shrugs, as if it's no big deal.

Zora scoffs, crossing her arms. "And what if I want to get into his bed?"

Oliver feels a sharp, unexpected pang in his chest. "You do?"

She steps closer and holds his gaze for a moment, then a slow smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

"Of course not. He's a prat."

Oliver exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding, and before he can stop himself, he smiles too. Zora's eyes flicker to his lips. Without realising it, he runs his tongue over his lower lip, fully aware of their closeness and her eyes o him. 

He jolts when Zora suddenly presses a finger against his chest, her gaze sharp, almost threatening.

"Don't ever tell me what to do again, Wood. Got it?"

But there's a softness, an amusement in her voice that betrays her.

Oliver is about to respond—probably something that will dig him even deeper—but before he can, she turns on her heel, already walking back toward the party.

"Don't forget our detention next week," she calls over her shoulder, flashing him a wink.

Oliver leans against the wall and lets out a long, shaky breath.

He watches her disappear into the crowd, the golden waves of her hair swaying with each step, trailing down her back, brushing against the exposed skin of her shoulders. And when she's gone, the only thing left behind is the faint trace of her perfume.

He drags a hand down his face.

What the hell is wrong with him?

More importantly, he wonders how the hell he's supposed to survive the year when just seeing her every day turns him into a complete idiot.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The next morning, Oliver wakes up exhausted, his head heavy. The second his eyes open, the memories from the night before come rushing back. Pucey, Zora, her costume, her finger pressing against his chest, the knowing amusement in her eyes. And him—acting like the biggest prick. Telling her to stop talking to Pucey.

Seriously, Wood?

He lets out a slow breath and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if that might somehow wipe the whole night from existence. He doesn't know what the hell got into him. He's not the kind of guy to lose his head over some girl, let alone one as frustrating as Zora. He's supposed to be better than that. More focused. More in control.

He sits up, already determined to push the whole thing aside and focus on what actually matters—Quidditch. Training. Winning. He's halfway through convincing himself it doesn't mean anything when a pillow smacks him straight in the face.

"Bloody hell," he mumbles, puting it off his head. He looks up to find George smiling at him. "What was that for?"

George leans back, hands behind his head, looking far too pleased with himself. "For your memorable performance last night."

Oliver frowns, rubbing his temple, before glancing at Fred—who throws another pillow at him.

"So," Fred says, stretching out on his bed, "what happened when you dragged Zora into that dark corner of the common room? Did you finally kiss her?"

"What? No! Absolutely not."

Lee, without hesitation, launches his pillow next. "Seriously, mate? What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not—" Oliver groans, gripping the back of his neck. "I don't want to kiss her. Can we drop it?"

Fred snorts. "Oh, come on. You were losing your mind last night just watching her talk to Pucey. Cut the crap."

Oliver swings his legs over the bed. "It's not like that, it's just—" He stops. The excuse he needs doesn't come. Because there isn't one. Not really.

Because Fred's right.

He swallows down the frustration rising in his chest, grabs his uniform, and stands up. "You know what? I don't owe you lot an explanation. I'm going to the pitch."

As he heads for the door, the boys launch another pillows at him again, laughing and yelling apologies in mock surrender. He flips them off over his shoulder before stepping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

After getting ready, Oliver makes his way to the Owlery before heading to the Quidditch pitch. The chiling morning air does little to clear the storm brewing in his head. He tells himself it's fine. It's nothing. Just a stupid night, a stupid argument, and a girl he shouldn't even be thinking about.

It doesn't work.

He climbs the steps to the Owlery, hoping for a distraction. Two letters are waiting for him. One from his sister, the other from his father. He grabs them, stuffing them into his pocket as he heads toward the locker room.

Once inside, he drops his gear onto the bench and opens the first letter. The messy handwriting makes him smile. 

Ollie,

I hope you've won your matches. I learned a bit of French at school, and I showed my friends a picture of you, and now they're all in love with you and want to see you play Quidditch. Dad said you're not coming home for Christmas. I'm sad. I hope I see you soon.

I love you. NORA 

Oliver exhales through his nose, guilt twisting in his gut. He can picture her writing this, tongue poking out in concentration, pressing too hard on the quill. She's still so young, still so full of light despite everything.

And he's leaving her alone for Christmas.

He rubs his thumb over her name. Normally, when he's home, he makes a point of being with her every second he can—making her laugh, taking her flying, helping her forget that their mother barely remembers their names anymore.

Something their dad never did for him.

He swallows against the tightness in his throat and opens the second letter. His father's. He already knows it won't be anything good. His father doesn't send letters unless he wants something.

Oliver,

I hope you realize the situation you're putting me in by not coming home for the holidays. I have things to handle at the Ministry, I'm very busy—as you know—and your mother's condition is getting worse. I won't be able to look after Nora for two weeks. I'll have to ask the parents of her friends to take her in.

It would be really helpful if you asked for permission to come home.

Also, any news on the Puddlemere trials?

Jack

Oliver's grip tightens. His chest burns with something he doesn't want to name.

The letter crumples in his fist before he even realizes what he's doing.

He presses his elbows against his knees, his head falling into his hands. Sometimes, he wonders if his father even has a heart, or if he's just made of schedules, work and obligations.

His mother is slipping away, and his father can't even pretend to care. And now, Nora is just another inconvenience to pass off to someone else.

Oliver doesn't want to be angry.

But he is.

And anger—anger is a dangerous thing.

"Oliver?"

A small voice echoes from the locker room entrance. He looks up and sees Bonnie, a second-year Gryffindor. He remembers now—he promised to meet her this morning to help with her training. She had tried out for Beater at the start of the year. She's still too young, but she has potential. Oliver agreed to train her once a month, promising that in a year or two, she'd make the team.

She reminds him of Nora. 

He exhales, pushing the emotions back down as he takes in her oversized helmet, nearly covering her eyes. A short laugh escapes him as he tucks the letters into his pocket, stands up, grabs his broom, and walks toward her. He taps her helmet lightly.

"Ready to become the best Beater Gryffindor's ever seen?"

Oliver stands on the pitch, shouting instructions to Bonnie as she flies across the field, working on her aim with the Beater's bat. 

"That's it, Bonnie! Focus! Your timing's off, but you'll get there!" Oliver calls, his eyes flicking between her and the Bludger she's targeting.

Then, in the middle of the training, he catches a glimpse of someone in the stands. Zora. She's standing by the railing, alone. Oliver's gaze lingers for a moment—something about the way she watches them catches his attention. 

Her lips curl into the faintest smile, a soft, almost tender thing. The kind of smile he is not used to see on her face. It's a fleeting thing, but it's enough to make Oliver's heart skip.

Oliver?" Bonnie's voice pulls him back to reality. "Are you okay? You seem... distracted."

Oliver quickly shakes it off, forcing a smile. "Yeah, fine. Let's get back to it. The Bludger's not going to hit itself."

Bonnie looks at him, brow furrowed in confusion. They resume the training and Oliver can't help after a few minutes a look towards the stands.  But she's gone. He blinks, confused, but there's no sign of her.

He shakes his head, trying to push the thought away.

"Ready?" he asks, trying to redirect his focus to Bonnie. "One more shot. Let's do this."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

On Sunday night, Oliver sits with his friends for dinner. Dumbledore is supposed to walk in any minutes now and to announce the Champions for the Triwizard Tournament. 

Around him, the table is filled with speculation.

"I bet it's Diggory," Fred says with a smile, looking at George. "Hogwart's champion, right? Pretty Boy's a shoe-in."

George chuckles. "I don't know, mate. That guy from Slytherin could be chosen too. Bet it would have been us if we got to put our name."

Angelina, sitting across from them, has a serious expression on her face. "I hope it's not Viktor," she says, her voice tinged with concern. "Otherwise, Zora's going to freak out. You know how she is when it comes to him."

Oliver stays silent, his eyes flicking to Zora, who's sitting perfectly still, her posture rigid as she listens but doesn't join in the conversation at her table. 

"Viktor's her cousin, right?" Alicia asks. Angelina nods. "I don't think it'll be easy for her if he gets picked."

Oliver doesn't say anything, just listens as the conversation continues. He can't help but wonder what it would mean for Zora if Viktor is chosen. The thought unsettles him more than he expected. But before he can think about it further, the doors to the Great Hall swing open, and Professor Dumbledore strides in. His presence immediately silences the room.

"Good evening, everyone," Dumbledore says, his voice calm but filled with an undeniable excitement. "As you know, tonight is the night we all learn who the champions for the Triwizard Tournament will be. It is my honor to announce the names of those chosen to represent their schools."

The tension in the air thickens as everyone leans forward, waiting with bated breath. Dumbledore raises his wand and the Goblet of Fire, glowing ominously in the center of the hall, flickers to life.

A first piece of paper gets out. "The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore announces, his voice carrying across the room, "is Viktor Krum."

Oliver catches Zora's face crumble. He sees it by the way her mouth slightly opens, the way her eyes begs him not to stand up and join Dumbledore. Everyone claps but she just looks in the void. 

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore continues, "is Fleur Delacour."

More applauses and cheer as the Beauxbatons girl rises from her seat. Oliver still looks at Zora. 

"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore announces next, "is Cedric Diggory!"

All the table erupt in applause, but Oliver's eyes flick back to Zora. Her hand, which had been resting on the table, is now clenched into a fist, and her expression is unreadable. The tension in her shoulders is palpable.

Her gaze flickers toward the exit, and without a word, she stands and walks briskly out of the Great Hall, her back straight, without looking back.

Oliver watches her go, a strange feeling settling in his chest.

He almost doesn't even hear Harry Potter's name coming out of the Cup and the whole hall going silent.  

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

i'm back ! i missed writing about them so muuuuch. here's a full oliver's pov to get to know my baby a bit more. don't hesitate to tell me what you think ->>>>>>> 

love u all <3 (i love your comments they alway make my day)